Ego et Rex Meus
by Bayonet
Summary: A new war is in full swing, and Rudolph is desperately trying to keep the old regime of his father together. Van is missing, and if he doesn't return, will history be doomed to repeat itself?
1. The Rain

Oohh... hey guys! Check this out! I'm actually updating this story! Actually, redoing it with better work. This is like... 8th grade writing? No, maybe 7th. Anyway, it's time for some 11th grade writing, which I am certainly capable of. So while my internet is down from a tree breanch, I'll set up shop and write a chapter for your pleasure!

Copyright jazz- Zoids is not my intellectual property, nor are any of the characters. I'm just writing for fun, here, peeps.

Rain. It had always brought a reminder of those times that were better. That could have been better. Like right now. There were those summer rains, warm rain that trickled from the sky in sheets and brought about a clean renewal to a sweltering day. Rolling clouds, dark and brooding, sweeping over the horizon like some rippling curtain, lightning flashes and thunderclaps echoing within. Mother Nature always had a way of toying with his emotions when it rained. And although he couldn't pinpoint that euphoric feeling, it was a welcome release. Only when it rained.

Nowadays, it was such a small comfort to embrace the rain. Not when so much had happened in such a short time. Three years... only three years of relative peace between two empires, and then some stupid argument between two scouts outside a desert village brought it all tumbiling down again. And damn if it hadn't gone down like a plane-wreck. Smoke, fire, brimstone, and then the explosion. well... that hadn't happened yet. He was still struggling above the others. desperately clinging to his allies for help and assistance. But even his closest friends were now moving away, drifting ever closer to that metaphoric edge of the cliff. And when they went over, you'd never see them again. It's like they dropped off the face of the earth. Literally.

And he was at the center. Hanging onto the rope that held together two opposing forces, trying to keep them bonded, while the rest of the world whipped against him. That was the job of a king, right? No, no it wasn't. that was the job of an ambassador, of a foreign policies magistrate. That was not the job of a small boy, barely in his teens, thrown into the monarchy and the viscious world of politics through no fault of his own. This was the job of someone who knew what he was doing. And shit, he couldn't even see what was happening to his country without feeling the need to cry and cling to his mother. If he had one. And it _killed _him every time he saw the way the world had fallen from grace, with the consent of those who ruled it. And he was one of them. He had been too concerned with petty matters, with a stupid peace treaty that would have never worked. It looked beautiful on paper, that soft cursive that explained the agreements between the Republic and Empire. But it was just a piece of paper. It held no importance. A real soldier, those who lived with death and destruction and sorrow every day of their lives, would probably just use it as a cloth to wipe their grimy faces with. In the real world, where it took murders and blood spilled, there were no peace treaties. There was what you could do, and what you couldn't do. And that was it. Politicians, who had never stepped out of their air-conditioned offices, let alone gotten their hands dirty, were the ones who ran this country. How fucking ironic.

He hated to say it, but maybe there was something about the previous regime that had worked. Although he had bee thrown out of it before he had truly understood, those colossal figures that had ruled his life before, they must have understood the fickle beast that was the political body. Even the man he hated now, Gunther Prozen, must have known exactly what to say, how to act before an aggressive audience, and tame them into compliance to his will. Sometimes, he had encountered Prozen in the halls of the palace, and he had seen something in his eyes. At the time, he didn't understand it, he couldn't fathom that feeling, the emotion that welled out of the man whenever he was even remotely close to him. Anger. A burning, rippling monster, composed of hatred and loathing. For what? There were so many answers to that. Human-kind, for being so stupid and ignorant enough to kill one another for a simple grudge that had developed centuries before. The war, that had been the basis of many of his actions, and the reason he held the position of Minister of State. It was a well know fact, a whispered secret, that Prozen had been a war general at one time. He had seen quick glances of the man, battle-worn and bloody, almost screaming at his father. What about, he didn't catch. But the tears streaming from those crimson eyes told enough of what they had seen. The death of thousands, just to move the war machine along into a stale-mate. Why he had been removed from this postion, and shoved into a political station like some square peg in a round hole, only his father knew. And he was dead. Whenever he asked about it, his father simply smiled and sat him on his lap, quickly directing his attention to some gift that he had gotten for him in some foreign land. And since he didn't know the meaning of the word lie, he gladly accepted the bullshit that had been shoved down his throat. "Oh, he requested to be a Minister, and I gave him the job because he was so smart. Did you know that we're winning? We'll be out of this war in a few months."

His father had lied to him. But he couldn't blame him for that. He was a small child then, and the truth wouldn't have been understood. Minister jobs weren't given out because one was even moderately intelligent. That he knew, from his time spent with his own cabinet, discussing the war and all of it's hateful complications. And the almost thread-bare words, "we're winning the war," they had been put away, like some old doll that had been outgrown. They were almost taboo, and even an utterance of something similar to those four words were rewarded with cold stares and awkward silence. He had tried that tactic at one time, but it had been tossed back in his face like a spoiled piece of meat before royalty. Nice try kid, this isn't utopia. Come back when you have real information.

And then there was Van. He had been in contact right up until the disintegration of the peace pact, and now was lost in the static between the channels, a casualty of war. It wasn't as if he was dead, he was smart enough to take care of his own ass. The fact that he was so well known, however, was as dangerous as any reward on the head of a criminal. Soldiers knew his name, his story, and the accomplishments that he had made for both sides. And right now, they hated him for it. For making them hope, believe that this war was at an end, that the destruction of an ancient machine and a crazed minister could solve the entire fucked up problem that was the body politic. And it made him ill, that his own allies had probably chased the kid out of their social circle, and that he was probably in hiding. For saving the world, no less. Gods, it was so messed up.

And he was now all alone. Stranded within an empire that was held together with spit and the strings of a previous era, created by a dead king and his conniving minister. What a situation he had to deal with. And the rain had stopped falling.


	2. Respite

When you don't want to do your AP Euro essay (15 pages, 3tf?) on European Imperialism in Africa... you write fanfiction. 'Nuff said. 

Copyright bull- Zoids is not mine. IS NOT MINE. Though I wish it was. Because then I could play with Prozen. :)

And I find it kind of funny,  
I find it kind of sad,  
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had,  
I find it hard to tell you,  
I find it hard to take,  
When people run in circles,  
It's a very very,  
Mad world.- Gary Jules- Mad World

What had happened? He still asked himself that on occasion. What had fucking happened? Save the world once, shame on you. Save the world twice, shame on me. That's not how it went...

He tore at his black hair, grimacing at his dusty shoes, almost waiting for a response. He had no-one else to talk to, save an Organoid. And Organoids were better hood ornaments than conversationists. The air was dry, like an oven being opened up on the world. And not a cloud in the sky. The heavens dangled above him, a dizzying forever of blue and blue and blue. He stared at it, squinting in the noon-day sun, momentarily forgetting why he was out in the desert in the first place. And then he remembered. Because he was Van Flyheight. Of course.

And being Van Flyheight, he was of course scourned by both sides, loved by neither. How had that crazy twist of fate come about? Through no fault of his own. He was the sacrificial ram, slaughtered as a crowd pleaser, and to appeal to the gods. If there were any. And at this point of time, under the sweltering sky, and with not a friend in the world, he counted against any divine intervention.

He coughed slightly, clearing his throat of the dusty sand and grit that constantly floated around him. It got in his eyes, stuck to his sweaty palms, and swirled in his lungs. And why was he out in the fucking desert? Because he was Van Flyheight. Wiping a hand across his damp brow, he turned his burnt eyes skyward again. Because there was no other entertainment. Zeke was already complaining in his organoid way about the heat, and had promptly halted all progress by refusing to come out from underneath a rocky outcropping, probably the only shade for miles. He had yelled, cussed, and kicked at the sleek silver machine, trying to get it to move, so they could continue looking for civilization. Somewhere, anywhere, that did not know his face, or his name. And now he was sitting in the shade as well. Funny thing.

His zoid was currently hidden in an underground cave, a remnant of some sort of battle, now long past. At least he hoped it was. Desert bandits were a problem nowadays. He had already dispatched a few small groups, but he couldn't risk being seen out in the open. A large blue mechanical cat is very distinguishing when the only other life-forms around are small kit-foxes and lizards that bite. And he couldn't afford another run-in with a Republic or Empire scout troop. This was, in all the maps he had scoured and documents he had read while in Rudolph's company, no-man's land. And yet both sides treated it like it was theirs. Which meant that they'd bomb the hell out of anything that so much as flickered on their radar. He'd seen a scout troop encounter another and destroy them, only to realize afterwards that they were their comrades. Because no-one ever opened their telecoms up to conversations. Not anymore. Speaking was the ultimate form of evil nowadays.

From what he had scratched up passing through towns and picking up scraps of messages between troops, the peace had dissolved, and both sides were at war again. He knew in his heart of hearts that this would happen. He just didn't know when. And damnit, if it didn't happen fast. One moment, he could wear a Republic badge and confront an Empire soldier with a smile and a handshake, the next he was worrying about whether his organs were going to be painting the nearby walls and people. Why the hell they had allowed common soldiers high powered rifles, the Gods only knew.

Zeke was sleeping now. He could tell. He had learned to read the thing after hanging out with it for over four years. And sometimes, even now, he felt stupid talking to it, even though he knew it understood his every word. The creature had powered down about a half-hour ago, and now it slept with it's warm metal back to his, supporting him as he leaned back as to take advantage of the shade. It was disappearing fast by the looks of it. His steel boots now glinted with reflected sunlight, when they were dark and dusty a bit ago. This was a signal to move. He sighed, running one gritty hand through his black hair, pulling at the knots and tangles viciously. He needed a bath. A smile fickered across his face, if only for a moment. For all the emotions that lingered around him now, the more important thoughts, he still sometimes succumbed to that human necessity. Cleanliness was next to godliness. But there were no Gods, were there? He stood slowly, stretched his gloved hands above his spiky head, and gently nudged the organoid awake. It grumbled, stood, and wordlessly, he mounted. In a spur of white dust, they were again dashing across the hot desert.


	3. Calm Before Storm

Kay so forgive me if some of these characters seem a bit out of character. I haven't seen Zoids since 7th grade. I'm now a senior in high school. Things happen.

Copyright stuff- Zoids belongs to someone else, not me, blahblahblah.

--------------------------O----O

What have I become?

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know

Goes away in the end

You could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt.

NIN- Hurt

Dead silence. Impending storm, Whatever you liked to call it. And whatever it was, it was there. It hovered in the hot, still air like some intense gaze from some heaven-ward bound god. And damn it, the heat was getting to her head again.

She leaned against the bars, her shirt sticking to her back and neck, unwilling to let her go like some jilted lover. She stank. Well... she thought she did. But that little seed of nausea felt it's way through the pit of her stomach every time she thought about asking one of the guards for a bath. Sexual innuendo aside, she wouldn't get back to the cell in one piece.

That's what happened in times of war. Trust was some highly classed, highly untradable object. Out here in the sands of some nondescript town, it was a rare commodity. The guard down the hall snarled noisily and spit, the third time since the sun rose. Already it felt as if an oven had been opened up on the unforunate world, and the sun wasn't even at it's peak yet. Still climbing, still teetering at the edge of the world. And where was she? Here, in this forgotten jail-cell, in this forgotten town, in a world that had fallen off the fortunate lists of the gods long ago.

Peace. It was a joke. She knew, she worked out in the field with the men and women who had lost their families, homes, and lives in order to fight for that delicate flower. And no matter how it has been cultivated, it still had been trampled underfoot. Now that she thought of it... it was a bloody flower, peace. It thrived off of blood until it matured, and then only flowered once or twice a decade. Suych a pity that it bloomed and then closed so fast.

Squinting eyes turned towards the bar cells, one pressing against her cheek and filled her senses with a metallic tinge. Her partner sat across the dirt hall, in a cell of his own, headband wrapped around one clenched fist. The eyepatch had been removed long ago, the guards eager to see if they could sell the trinket for some price. After all, they needed their smokes and booze.

He turned his intense violet gaze towards her, both eyes finally staring back at her, spiky hair matted down across his forehead and neck. The eyes were as sharp as steel, but the facial expression suggested he was half-asleep. Jack of all trades, master of none. Even with his emotions, it seemed. A small smile flickered like some dying bulb, and he nodded. It was a fraction of an inch, a small human gesture that seemed to cost him a thousand hardships. He then turned his back to her again, and the contact ceased.

They had both gotten into this mess, him for trying to be the hero, and her for trying to save his heroic ass. In the end, they were both captured like scientific experiments, unsure of the outcome but knowing that it was not going to be good. Chances were that their zoids had already been sold for scrap, or were going to be given (for some lucrative price,) to one side of the war or another.

She didn't even care anymore. She didn't even want to adopt one side or the other. she just wanted out of this stupid circle of lies, bloodshed, and anger. It was a whole new regime, and already it was going bad. She couldn't help but think back to Rudolph, the child casting a shadow over her as if he was standing on the other side of the bars, offering a helpful hand and smiling like he always did.

And she was glad she wasn't in his position. For all the bruises she suffered, she would take a thousand more to save herself from the doomed guillotine that was the body politic. He was young, too young to understand the motives that powered humankind. Greed, power, and wealth. He had preached the virtues of kindness, of grace. And yet he had never seemed to catch on with the rest of the world. Funny thing. That no-one would offer a hand to the emperor who had fought his way back to them in order to save them, who struggled with all manner of obstacles in order to bring peace.

But saving one's ass was key in war. If it didn't benefit you, it wasn't worth trying. Even she had let this philosophy wiggle it's way into her, in her weakest states, those of severe pain and loss. There were very few saints these days, they had been hunted to extinction, or very close to it. He seemed to be the last of his species, leading a struggling, bawling world and populace through a mine-field, with an equally blind stare. He couldn't see his own faltering steps, and luck had already jumped aside to watch the rag-tag group that was humanity pass.

And she.. what could she do? She was a grunt, a scum of the world, born and bred to do one thing, and out of her element if it wasn't included in her daily routine. The man across from her, in his own humiliating cage, surely thought the same, followed the same lines with his mind. He was a fighter, not exactly the purest of people, but compared to the new breed of filth that had taken power over the course of the war, he might as well don the robes of a priest and meditate wisdom on some marble stoop. Like he ever would. Robes would be "too girly" for him.

She would have laughed at seeing her muscular companion in that state of utter meditative bliss. The desert had, unfortunately, sapped her of her smile. It was currently blowing around in the hot air, along with her tears and prayers. She hoped that someone might catch them, and bring them back to her someday, when this war was over, and human-kind could see each other eye to eye.


End file.
